by Unknown
Lord Rintoul, whose hair was so like his skin that in the family portraits he might have been painted in one colour, could never rid himself of the feeling that it must be a great thing to a writing chap to get a good dinner; but her ladyship always explained him away with an apologetic smile which went over his remarks like a piece of india-rubber, so that in the end he had never said anything. She was a slight, pretty woman of nearly forty, and liked Tommy because he remembered so vividly her coming to the Spittal as a bride. He even remembered how she had been dressed — her white bonnet, for instance.
“For long,” Tommy said, musing, “I resented other women in white bonnets; it seemed profanation.”
“How absurd!” she told him, laughing. “You must have been quite a small boy at the time.”
“But with a lonely boy’s passionate admiration for beautiful things,” he answered; and his gravity was a gentle rebuke to her. “It was all a long time ago,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “but I never forget, and, dear lady, I have often wanted to thank you.” What he was thanking her for is not precisely clear, but she knew that the artistic temperament is an odd sort of thing, and from this time Lady Rintoul liked Tommy, and even tried to find the right wife for him among the families of the surrounding clergy. His step was sometimes quite springy when he left the Spittal; but Grizel’s shadow was always waiting for him somewhere on the way home, to take the life out of him, and after that it was again, oh, sorrowful disillusion! oh, world gone gray! Grizel did not admire him. T. Sandys was no longer a wonder to Grizel. He went home to that as surely as the labourer to his evening platter.
And now we come to the affair of the Slugs. Corp had got a holiday, and they were off together fishing the Drumly Water, by Lord Rintoul’s permission. They had fished the Drumly many a time without it, and this was to be another such day as those of old. The one who woke at four was to rouse the other. Never had either waked at four; but one of them was married now, and any woman can wake at any hour she chooses, so at four Corp was pushed out of bed, and soon thereafter they took the road. Grizel’s blinds were already up. “Do you mind,” Corp said, “how often, when we had boasted we were to start at four and didna get roaded till six, we wriggled by that window so that Grizel shouldna see us?”
“She usually did see us,” Tommy replied ruefully. “Grizel always spotted us, Corp, when we had anything to hide, and missed us when we were anxious to be seen.”
“There was no jouking her,” said Corp. “Do you mind how that used to bother you?” a senseless remark to a man whom it was bothering still — or shall we say to a boy? For the boy came back to Tommy when he heard the Drumly singing; it was as if he had suddenly seen his mother looking young again. There had been a thunder-shower as they drew near, followed by a rush of wind that pinned them to a dike, swept the road bare, banged every door in the glen, and then sank suddenly as if it had never been, like a mole in the sand. But now the sun was out, every fence and farmyard rope was a string of diamond drops. There was one to every blade of grass; they lurked among the wild roses; larks, drunken with song, shook them from their wings. The whole earth shone so gloriously with them that for a time Tommy ceased to care whether he was admired. We can pay nature no higher compliment.
But when they came to the Slugs! The Slugs of Kenny is a wild crevice through which the Drumly cuts its way, black and treacherous, into a lovely glade where it gambols for the rest of its short life; you would not believe, to see it laughing, that it had so lately escaped from prison. To the Slugs they made their way — not to fish, for any trout that are there are thinking for ever of the way out and of nothing else, but to eat their luncheon, and they ate it sitting on the mossy stones their persons had long ago helped to smooth, and looking at a roan-branch, which now, as then, was trailing in the water.
There were no fish to catch, but there was a boy trying to catch them. He was on the opposite bank; had crawled down it, only other boys can tell how, a barefooted urchin of ten or twelve, with an enormous bagful of worms hanging from his jacket button. To put a new worm on the hook without coming to destruction, he first twisted his legs about a young birch, and put his arms round it. He was after a big one, he informed Corp, though he might as well have been fishing in a treatise on the art of angling.
Corp exchanged pleasantries with him; told him that Tommy was Captain Ure, and that he was his faithful servant Alexander Bett, both of Edinburgh. Since the birth of his child, Corp had become something of a humourist. Tommy was not listening. As he lolled in the sun he was turning, without his knowledge, into one of the other Tommies. Let us watch the process.
He had found a half-fledged mavis lying dead in the grass. Remember also how the larks had sung after rain.
Tommy lost sight and sound of Corp and the boy. What he seemed to see was a baby lark that had got out of its nest sideways, a fall of half a foot only, but a dreadful drop for a baby. “You can get back this way,” its mother said, and showed it the way, which was quite easy, but when the baby tried to leap, it fell on its back. Then the mother marked out lines on the ground, from one to the other of which it was to practise hopping, and soon it could hop beautifully so long as its mother was there to say every moment, “How beautifully you hop!” “Now teach me to hop up,” the little lark said, meaning that it wanted to fly; and the mother tried to do that also, but in vain; she could soar up, up, up bravely, but could not explain how she did it. This distressed her very much, and she thought hard about how she had learned to fly long ago last year, but all she could recall for certain was that you suddenly do it. “Wait till the sun comes out after rain,” she said, half remembering. “What is sun? What is rain?” the little bird asked. “If you cannot teach me to fly, teach me to sing.” “When the sun comes out after rain,” the mother replied, “then you will know how to sing.” The rain came, and glued the little bird’s wings together. “I shall never be able to fly nor to sing,” it wailed. Then, of a sudden, it had to blink its eyes; for a glorious light had spread over the world, catching every leaf and twig and blade of grass in tears, and putting a smile into every tear. The baby bird’s breast swelled, it did not know why; and it fluttered from the ground, it did not know how. “The sun has come out after the rain,” it trilled. “Thank you, sun; thank you, thank you! Oh, mother, did you hear me? I can sing!” And it floated up, up, up, crying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” to the sun. “Oh, mother, do you see me? I am flying!” And being but a baby, it soon was gasping, but still it trilled the same ecstasy, and when it fell panting to earth it still trilled, and the distracted mother called to it to take breath or it would die, but it could not stop. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” it sang to the sun till its little heart burst.
With filmy eyes Tommy searched himself for the little pocket-book in which he took notes of such sad thoughts as these, and in place of the book he found a glove wrapped in silk paper. He sat there with it in his hand, nodding his head over it so broken-heartedly you could not have believed that he had forgotten it for several days.
Death was still his subject; but it was no longer a bird he saw: it was a very noble young man, and his white, dead face stared at the sky from the bottom of a deep pool. I don’t know how he got there, but a woman who would not admire him had something to do with it. No sun after rain had come into that tragic life. To the water that had ended it his white face seemed to be saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” It was the old story of a faithless woman. He had given her his heart, and she had played with it. For her sake he had striven to be famous; for her alone had he toiled through dreary years in London, the goal her lap, in which he should one day place his book — a poor, trivial little work, he knew (yet much admired by the best critics). Never had his thoughts wandered for one instant of that time to another woman; he had been as faithful in life as in death; and now she came to the edge of the pool and peered down at his staring eyes and laughed.
He had got thus far when a shout from Corp b
rought him, dazed, to his feet. It had been preceded by another cry, as the boy and the sapling he was twisted round toppled into the river together, uprooted stones and clods pounding after them and discolouring the pool into which the torrent rushes between rocks, to swirl frantically before it dives down a narrow channel and leaps into another caldron.
There was no climbing down those precipitous rocks. Corp was shouting, gesticulating, impotent. “How can you stand so still?” he roared.
For Tommy was standing quite still, like one not yet thoroughly awake. The boy’s head was visible now and again as he was carried round in the seething water; when he came to the outer ring down that channel he must infallibly go, and every second or two he was in a wider circle.
Tommy was awake now, and he could not stand still and see a boy drown before his eyes. He knew that to attempt to save him was to face a terrible danger, especially as he could not swim; but he kicked off his boots. There was some gallantry in the man.
“You wouldna dare!” Corp cried, aghast.
Tommy hesitated for a moment, but he had abundance of physical courage. He clenched his teeth and jumped. But before he jumped he pushed the glove into Corp’s hand, saying, “Give her that, and tell her it never left my heart.” He did not say who she was; he scarcely knew that he was saying it. It was his dream intruding on reality, as a wheel may revolve for a moment longer after the spring breaks.
Corp saw him strike the water and disappear. He tore along the bank as he had never run before, until he got to the water’s edge below the Slugs, and climbed and fought his way to the scene of the disaster. Before he reached it, however, we should have had no hero had not the sapling, the cause of all this pother, made amends by barring the way down the narrow channel. Tommy was clinging to it, and the boy to him, and, at some risk, Corp got them both ashore, where they lay gasping like fish in a creel.
The boy was the first to rise to look for his fishingrod, and he was surprised to find no six-pounder at the end of it. “She has broke the line again!” he said; for he was sure then and ever afterwards that a big one had pulled him in.
Corp slapped him for his ingratitude; but the man who had saved this boy’s life wanted no thanks. “Off to your home with you, wherever it is,” he said to the boy, who obeyed silently; and then to Corp: “He is a little fool, Corp, but not such a fool as I am.” He lay on his face, shivering, not from cold, not from shock, but in a horror of himself. I think it may fairly be said that he had done a brave if foolhardy thing; it was certainly to save the boy that he had jumped, and he had given himself a moment’s time in which to draw back if he chose, which vastly enhances the merit of the deed. But sentimentality had been there also, and he was now shivering with a presentiment of the length to which it might one day carry him.
They lit a fire among the rocks, at which he dried his clothes, and then they set out for home, Corp doing all the talking. “What a town there will be about this in Thrums!” was his text; and he was surprised when Tommy at last broke silence by saying passionately: “Never speak about this to me again, Corp, as long as you live. Promise me that. Promise never to mention it to anyone. I want no one to know what I did to-day, and no one will ever know unless you tell; the boy can’t tell, for we are strangers to him.”
“He thinks you are a Captain Ure, and that I’m Alexander Bett, his servant,” said Corp. “I telled him that for a divert.”
“Then let him continue to think that.”
Of course Corp promised. “And I’ll go to the stake afore I break my promise,” he swore, happily remembering one of the Jacobite oaths. But he was puzzled. They would make so much of Tommy if they knew. They would think him a wonder. Did he not want that?
“No,” Tommy replied.
“You used to like it; you used to like it most michty.”
“I have changed.”
“Ay, you have; but since when? Since you took to making printed books?”
Tommy did not say, but it was more recently than that. What he was surrendering no one could have needed to be told less than he; the magnitude of the sacrifice was what enabled him to make it. He was always at home among the superlatives; it was the little things that bothered him. In his present fear of the ride that sentimentality might yet goad him to, he craved for mastery over self; he knew that his struggles with his Familiar usually ended in an embrace, and he had made a passionate vow that it should be so no longer. The best beginning of the new man was to deny himself the glory that would be his if his deed were advertised to the world. Even Grizel must never know of it — Grizel, whose admiration was so dear to him. Thus he punished himself, and again I think he deserves respect.
* * *
CHAPTER X
GAVINIA ON THE TRACK
Corp, you remember, had said that he would go to the stake rather than break his promise; and he meant it, too, though what the stake was, and why such a pother about going to it, he did not know. He was to learn now, however, for to the stake he had to go. This was because Gavinia, when folding up his clothes, found in one of the pockets a glove wrapped in silk paper.
Tommy had forgotten it until too late, for when he asked Corp for the glove it was already in Gavinia’s possession, and she had declined to return it without an explanation. “You must tell her nothing,” Tommy said sternly. He was uneasy, but relieved to find that Corp did not know whose glove it was, nor even why gentlemen carry a lady’s glove in their pocket.
At first Gavinia was mildly curious only, but her husband’s refusal to answer any questions roused her dander. She tried cajolery, fried his take of trout deliciously for him, and he sat down to them sniffing. They were small, and the remainder of their brief career was in two parts. First he lifted them by the tail, then he laid down the tail. But not a word about the glove.
She tried tears. “Dinna greet, woman,” he said in distress. “What would the bairn say if he kent I made you greet?”
Gavinia went on greeting, and the baby, waking up, promptly took her side.
“D —— n the thing!” said Corp.
“Your ain bairn!”
“I meant the glove!” he roared.
It was curiosity only that troubled Gavinia. A reader of romance, as you may remember, she had encountered in the printed page a score of ladies who, on finding such parcels in their husbands’ pockets, left their homes at once and for ever, and she had never doubted but that it was the only course to follow; such is the power of the writer of fiction. But when the case was her own she was merely curious; such are the limitations of the writer of fiction. That there was a woman in it she did not believe for a moment. This, of course, did not prevent her saying, with a sob, “Wha is the woman?”
With great earnestness Corp assured her that there was no woman. He even proved it: “Just listen to reason, Gavinia. If I was sich a black as to be chief wi’ ony woman, and she wanted to gie me a present, weel, she might gie me a pair o’ gloves, but one glove, what use would one glove be to me? I tell you, if a woman had the impidence to gie me one glove, I would fling it in her face.”
Nothing could have been clearer, and he had put it thus considerately because when a woman, even the shrewdest of them, is excited (any man knows this), one has to explain matters to her as simply and patiently as if she were a four-year-old; yet Gavinia affected to be unconvinced, and for several days she led Corp the life of a lodger in his own house.
“Hands off that poor innocent,” she said when he approached the baby.
If he reproved her, she replied meekly, “What can you expect frae a woman that doesna wear gloves?”
To the baby she said: “He despises you, my bonny, because you hae no gloves. Ay, that’s what maks him turn up his nose at you. But your mother is fond o’ you, gloves or no gloves.”
She told the baby the story of the glove daily, with many monstrous additions.
When Corp came home from his work, she said that a poor, love-lorn female had called with a boot for him, and a reques
t that he should carry it in the pocket of his Sabbath breeks.
Worst of all, she listened to what he said in the night. Corp had a habit of talking in his sleep. He was usually taking tickets at such times, and it had been her custom to stop him violently; but now she changed her tactics: she encouraged him. “I would be lying in my bed,” he said to Tommy, “dreaming that a man had fallen into the Slugs, and instead o’ trying to save him I cried out, ‘Tickets there, all tickets ready,’ and first he hands me a glove and neist he hands me a boot and havers o’ that kind sich as onybody dreams. But in the middle o’ my dream it comes ower me that I had better waken up to see what Gavinia’s doing, and I open my een, and there she is, sitting up, hearkening avidly to my every word, and putting sly questions to me about the glove.”
“What glove?” Tommy asked coldly.
“The glove in silk paper.”
“I never heard of it,” said Tommy.
Corp sighed. “No,” he said loyally, “neither did I”; and he went back to the station and sat gloomily in a wagon. He got no help from Tommy, not even when rumours of the incident at the Slugs became noised abroad.
“A’body kens about the laddie now,” he said.
“What laddie?” Tommy inquired.
“Him that fell into the Slugs.”
“Ah, yes,” Tommy said; “I have just been reading about it in the paper. A plucky fellow, this Captain Ure who saved him. I wonder who he is.”
“I wonder!” Corp said with a groan.
“There was an Alexander Bett with him, according to the papers,” Tommy went on. “Do you know any Bett?”
“It’s no a Thrums name,” Corp replied thankfully. “I just made it up.”
“What do you mean?” Tommy asked blankly.
Corp sighed, and went back again to the wagon. He was particularly truculent that evening when the six-o’clock train came in. “Tickets, there; look slippy wi’ your tickets.” His head bobbed up at the window of another compartment. “Tick — —” he began, and then he ducked.